fairest, fairest
by toraffles
Summary: Woman seeking non-murderous boyfriend. Or, barring that, someone who won't kill family members without asking permission first. Exceptional survival skills and hardiness of mind required. Villainy is not a deal-breaker; sanity preferred but optional. (In Gotham, you can't throw a rock out the window without hitting a villain. Imagine what that does to your love life.)
1. Once upon a time

**Fairest, Fairest**

* * *

Woman seeking non-murderous boyfriend. Or, barring that, someone who won't kill family members without asking permission first. Exceptional survival skills and hardiness of mind required. Villainy is not a deal-breaker. Sanity preferred but optional.

(In Gotham, you can't throw a rock out the window without hitting a villain. Imagine what that does to your love life.)

(Vasilisa doesn't have to imagine.)

* * *

_Notes._

Reader beware: lots of sexual harassment, one-sided and unwanted incestuous behaviour, unhealthy relationship. I don't usually have pre-chapter notes, but one of the characters necessitates it.

* * *

**I. Once Upon a Time**

* * *

.

.

.

Vasilisa met Jonathan Crane at a national neuropsychology conference held in San Francisco. It was an annual affair that happened every March, but this year, the conference had her not only in the audience but also on the stage as a speaker, invited to lecture on her observations on psychopathy and correlated dysfunctions in the brain.

Val's insights on this topic were not quite groundbreaking, but they were nothing to scoff at, either. Despite her relative youth, being a licenced neurosurgeon in Gotham meant that she was in a uniquely advantageous position to A) be exposed to a population with extraordinary wealth of psychopathy and antisociality and B) be exposed to the cracked-open brains of a disproportionate number of said psychopaths. She was barely out of her residency, but even the short period of time that she had been certified gave her more than enough data to base her lecture, let alone all the years she'd been a resident of Gotham General Hospital.

Although she had conducted no meta-analyses of statistical significance nor conducted any carefully designed experiments with controls and standardized procedures, she was in possession of an aggregate sum of case studies that was, in this profession, deemed a veritable fortune. This meant that her research, her findings, and her conclusions all held enough merit for the committee in charge to request her to fill a slot amongst the other experts and speakers.

The theme that year was, of course, psychopathy.

"... And thus injury and dysfunction of the paralimbic system appear, in many cases, to be strongly correlated with psychopathy and antisociality. If I may be so bold to say, it may even present itself as a potential _cause_ of psychopathy, particularly in the case of lesions and pathological underactivation in the amygdala, the fear center of the brain. Of course, this claim must be substantiated by randomized experiments with all the bells and whistles to hold any weight…"

As her presentation wound down, she strode across the stage in her tight pencil skirt, gesturing empathically at the projected screen with the tiny remote in her hand. Back and forth, back and forth, she went, and the entire time she could feel someone's eyes boring into her with almost disturbing intensity.

Almost, because Val was a woman who had been raised from childhood in Gotham. And in her line of work? Threats of bodily harm and mutilation by raving, frothing lunatics were considered trite, no matter if they were seven feet tall or had arms as thick as her thighs. It would take something quite exceptional to disturb her.

"And that concludes this presentation. Thank you for your time. If you have any questions or wish to further discuss these findings, I will be here for the rest of the night," she said, to the polite and moderately enthusiastic applause that followed her last slide.

Val didn't have to wait long at all to identify the person who had been watching her with laser-like focus. As soon as the conference broke for recess he beelined straight to her, a skinny, bespeckled man of mildly tall height and the distinct style of an academic.

"That was an excellent lecture, Dr Prekrasnaya," the man said, with a subtle, close-lipped smile. Val blinked up at him. She hadn't even gotten out of her seat yet, so he seemed to loom over her with his upright posture. When he held out his hand, she took it without bothering to get up, shaking it firmly. "Jonathan Crane. I was deeply intrigued by your observations on the pattern of neuropathology in the patients who scored significantly on the PCL-R. As the head psychiatrist of Arkham Asylum, your work is of personal interest to me, and I hope I can monopolize a bit of your time to discuss some of the other, doubtlessly fascinating, cases that you have come across while working in Gotham Hospital."

Both of Val's brows went up in amusement. If Dr Crane's fashion sense hadn't already outed him as an avid academic, the way he spoke surely would have done it. "Come," she said, pulling him down by the hand still in her grasp. He looked at her with his piercing eyes and allowed himself to be maneuvered into the cushioned chair next to her. "Let's sit and talk."

When he sat it brought him closer to her, gave the light a better angle to hit his face, and so she studied him again. Despite his bookish glasses and unfortunately combed hair, Dr Crane wasn't necessarily unattractive. He had naturally pursed lips, cheekbones you could cut yourself on, and heavily hooded eyes that were a blue as clear and brilliant as glass.

"You can call me Vasilisa; I know my surname is a mouthful," Val said. She smiled up at him, with a playful tilt to her head that she knew would make her blonde hair tumble prettily over her shoulder and emphasize the long line of her neck. "A fellow Gothamite, huh? If you work at Arkham, I'm not sure if any story I have to tell would be of much interest; your patients are probably far more fascinating than mine."

"Oh, that's not true at all," Dr Crane immediately replied. He was very soft-spoken, but something about the sharpness of his gaze brought to mind the quiet, vicious cunning of a shark. But he was from Gotham too, so Val didn't find this alarming. Rather, it was far preferable to the alternative, because soft people got chewed up by the city and spat out as sad, pathetic lumps of themselves. Val was not attracted to sad, pathetic lumps. "Your profession allows you to explore the biological bases for the psychopathologies that I encounter in my patients, and I'd enjoy picking your brain for insights, if you will pardon the pun."

"I'd love to share war stories, but I think the conference is starting again in a few minutes," Val told him. She glanced at the digital clock being projected at the front of the hall and bit her lower lip, feeling Dr Crane's eyes remain fixed on her. "But I'm not particularly interested in any of the following speakers, either. I wouldn't mind blowing this joint if you're up for it, Dr Crane."

He smiled, then, a slow spread of his mouth that showed the slightest glimmer of white teeth. "Sounds good to me," he said, stretching fluidly to his feet. Dr Crane pulled Val up by the hand, and she realized that he had been keeping her hand on his open palm, over his knee, the whole time. "I hear that this hotel has a very good bar. Do you want to talk over a couple of drinks?"

"Only if you're paying," Val said jokingly, except that she wasn't joking at all.

"Of course," he said, his mirror-bright eyes glimmering. "And—call me Jonathan."

* * *

What Val learned that night was that if you took off his glasses and mussed up his hair, Jonathan Crane became explosively good-looking. What Jonathan learned that night was that his hand fit perfectly in the crook of Val's knee and if he ran his teeth over her earlobe just right, she would shiver deliciously.

The next morning, they boarded the same plane back to Gotham. Jonathan convinced an elderly man to switch with him so he could be in Val's adjoining seat. They spent the entire plane ride bantering and flirting madly.

A week later, they were exclusive.

* * *

Vasilisa soon found that Jonathan Crane was a startlingly good boyfriend. He remembered all the dates, made all the gestures. He thought she was gorgeous when she dressed up and when she dressed down. He was confident and competent, and never expected her to act like she wasn't.

Jonathan listened to her when she spoke. He didn't just nod along with the mindless patience of someone sitting through a daily chore, waiting for the good part, either. He actually _listened_, treated her every word as gold, replied with his own thoughts. And his safety was never a cause of worry for her; despite the location of his work, he was never mugged, never attacked, never anything. This probably meant that he was involved in deeply suspect and highly criminal activity, but he never brought it to her, so what did it matter?

It was the perfect relationship.

They were so well-suited for each other that it almost frightened her. She had finally found a man who wasn't insecure that she was smarter and more educated than he was, and who didn't expect her to settle down and retire as a useless trophy wife. He had finally found someone who didn't mind his high-browed manner of speech or the way he either made too much or not enough eye contact, someone who neither pried into nor minded all his hidden points and edges. He kept her grounded; she convinced him to relax.

They were both wildly intelligent and their interests were simply two sides of the same coin; an intellectual discourse between them took the flavour of a sexual encounter more than not. They made an indecent amount of jokes about brains and psychologists because they knew the other would actually understand it. She called him out when he tried to use any of his psychological tactics on her, and he managed to gently remind her that she wasn't always right (although she usually was).

Neither begrudged the other for late nights at work, because they both understood the demands of the other's occupation. Fidelity wasn't a thing of doubt, at any point.

They argued infrequently, but always with facts and logic, because neither of them would stand for it otherwise. Jonathan almost never raised his voice.

When he did, though, it was usually about the same topic: Val's brother. Rather, her foster brother.

Phillip Stryver.

* * *

"I have to go," said Vasilisa. They were standing in the living room of his condo, gazing blindly out the window with all the lights off. Gotham City sparkled underneath them in diamond bursts of red and green and white. "I missed Christmas with the family last year because I was spending it with you. I have to go this year. Mom and Dad are getting old."

"Even so, you could stay in a hotel for the night," Jonathan coaxed, winding his arms around her waist. He pulled Val close to his chest and buried his face into the side of her neck, nudging the strap of her dress so it would fall off her shoulder. They swayed in place, barefoot and without any music to accompany them.

Val ran her hand over the wrinkled folds of Jonathan's sleeve to his warm forearm and tapered wrist. "I could, but that's a waste of money. It's my home too, and I won't be forced to act as if it isn't. They adopted me when I had nobody. They're my family."

She could feel Jonathan's mouth twisting against the skin of her neck in a sneer. "Some _family_," he hissed, his ire rising as suddenly and fiercely as the head of a snake whose tail had been stepped on. His breath was a lick of heat on her jaw. His voice rose with every word. "I'm sure that bastard you call your brother thinks of you purely as _family_."

Val bit her lip. In truth, she really had no good answer for that. "I asked you to come with me," she offered instead.

They stilled. Jonathan leaned back, but his arms tightened around her. She could feel his gaze on the side of her face like a physical touch, dark and heavy.

"You know I can't. Christmas in Arkham is bad enough, but in recent days, with that man modeling himself as a bat running around, the patients will work themselves to a fever pitch. I have to be there to make sure the orderlies and the patients don't kill themselves, or each other."

"You should just let them and spend Christmas with me," Val said contrarily, not really meaning it, but also not not-meaning it.

Jonathan smiled wryly, reluctantly. His voice fell again, became soft and low. "And lose my job?"

"I could take care of both of us."

His smile widened helplessly and he shook his head. With a laugh, Jonathan lowered his head to her bare shoulder and kissed it. "It's quite unfortunate that I actually like my job, then."

"It's an incredible inconvenience," Val agreed, ghosting her fingers back and forth over the back of his hand. His hand flipped over and grabbed hers, locking their fingers together.

Jonathan's lips began to move. They ran over her shoulder, up her neck, along her jaw, and folded over her earlobe.

"Ah," Val breathed, arching into him. She could feel him smirking against her ear. Unsatisfied with this state of affairs, she spun around in his arms and slid her hands against his chest.

With a roguish grin, she pushed Jonathan down onto the plush rug behind him so that he was sprawled onto it, his brow raised in challenge. Val stalked over to him with the slow, deliberate sway of a jungle cat. He watched her with hungry eyes, head turning to follow her every movement. When Jonathan tried to push himself up, she pounced.

They did not leave that rug until the next morning.

* * *

As promised, Christmas was spent at her parents' house.

Mrs and Mr Stryver were a very kindly old couple who lived in the Bristol Township, right across the river from Gotham City. The township was legally part of Gotham jurisdiction, but no one considered it as part of Gotham. It was just as well that the elderly couple didn't actually live in the city; it would have ground them down years and years ago. They simply didn't have the grit or callousness required to survive it.

Over twenty years ago, they had found a little Russian girl wandering around on the banks of the river, hungry and shivering. Her mother, they were told, had told the little girl to stay put, that she would soon return. Four days later, she had not returned.

The Stryvers had pitied her and taken her in out of the goodness of their hearts. After years of being unable to locate any family, they had grown deeply fond of the little girl, and so decided to adopt her. This proved a difficult task, as the girl had no documentation and was, in all likelihood, an illegal immigrant, but they kept at it and eventually the little girl grew up to be Vasilisa Prekrasnaya, valedictorian of Gotham University and then esteemed neurosurgeon at the largest hospital in Gotham.

Her original surname had been unknown, and so they'd made one up together. Vasilisa the Beautiful—a nod to her heritage and history. Despite not having taken the Stryver name, she was truly considered family by the old Stryver couple who had always wanted a daughter anyway.

This was not the case for Phillip Stryver, their son.

No one could say if Phillip had ever considered Vasilisa his sister. It could, however, be said with utmost certainty that he had not once _treated_ Val as a sister, or even as a friend.

At first, the reason was obvious. She was too strange, too foreign, too… invasive. As an only child who had finally been born after many years and much struggle, little Phillip had always monopolized all of his parents' time and attention. He was much beloved, doted upon to a reckless extent, and never knew what it felt to not be the single axis around which the family turned. Phillip had regarded little Val simply as a curiosity right until the point he realized he would have to share his parents' attention with her, and then she became a nuisance he would gladly chase away.

Phillip was only a year older than Val, but he was bigger, bolder, meaner, and—most importantly—he was Mrs and Mr Stryver's actual birth child. Afraid of being turned out after barely finding a new family, Val resigned herself to Phillip's bullying. With the yielding manner of someone used to being at the bottom of the food chain, she allowed him to do anything he wanted to her and did not complain to their parents no matter how far he went.

Val's new brother pulled her braids until she cried, flipped her skirts to bother her, and flushed the toilet while she was in the shower so she'd be shocked with hot water. He snatched her drinks before she was finished with them, rubbed her new clothes in dirt and hung them from trees for the world to see. It was the petty harassment of a child, and Val wordlessly endured. She felt that she had no choice.

Indeed, when considered as the pay-off for a warm bed, regular, delicious meals, and two loving parents, this torment seemed to be nothing much at all.

But then—Phillip became a teenager. Vasilisa really did become beautiful. And things took a dark, morbid turn.

He began to sneak up behind her and put things in her hair, making up any excuse to run his fingers through the waves. He began to flip up her skirt because he _wanted_ to see what was underneath. He used the washroom when he knew she was already in the shower so as to watch the silhouette of her naked body through the curtain. He stole her underclothes off of the laundry line and stashed them under his mattress. Whenever she drank anything, he always picked up the cup she had been using and took just one sip, locking eyes with her as his mouth invariably met the mark of her lip gloss on the rim of the cup.

At night, Phillip would lay in bed and think of her soft golden hair, her smooth, creamy thighs, the storm green of her eyes. Val would head to the kitchen for a glass of water and, hearing the faint moan of her name through the thin door of his room, dart back into her room like a startled deer and blockade the door. Sometimes he heard her, and she'd crouch warily on the bed with a hand on the open window next to it, listening tensely to the soft rattling of the doorknob.

Phillip was a good son. He got good grades, did all of his chores, didn't act out. He was respectful and considerate to his parents. He had friends and hobbies. Even if he wasn't particularly charming or popular, he was still a normal boy, and that was why Val didn't tell anyone about her brother's perverse obsession with her. He hid his actions so well that no one suspected, and she was afraid—convinced—that no one would believe her, least of all their parents. Or, even worse, that they'd believe her and not care.

Then, when she was going on to seventeen and he eighteen, Phillip went away to Metropolis for college.

It was like Val could suddenly breathe. She no longer had to keep her room locked tight day and night, no longer had to wear shorts under her skirts, no longer had to stand guard in the laundry room while her clothes were being dried, no longer had to bar the washroom door with a broom in case Phillip came to twist open the lock with a coin. The freedom, the ease of knowing hungry eyes weren't constantly watching her, it made her optimistic.

It made her careless. After all, all good things came to an end at some point, and Phillip would have to come home for the summer.

Sure as anything, Phillip did return home that summer. He was a little more tanned, and spoke much about his new, well-connected friends, his coursework, the pretty college girls he'd met with. His eyes hardly lingered on Val at all when before they would hardly leave her, and so she allowed herself to be lulled into a false sense of security.

There were many women in Metropolis who were lovelier and more charming than she was. Her brother was onto bigger and better things now that he was in college, and Val judged that he must have lost interest in her.

This, she learned, was an enormous miscalculation on her part.

The night Phillip came back for the summer holidays, Val didn't lock her bedroom door. She'd forgotten to; emboldened after a year's worth of freedom and the hope of a new epoch, she'd already lost her fear and her unfaltering vigilance.

She woke up just past midnight, flush against an unfamiliar body with a hand slipped under her nightshirt, a heavy weight on her hip. A man's lightly stubbled cheek pressed up against her jaw, his hot mouth on her temple.

Val's next breath seized and died in her chest. Terror blanked her mind. Her mouth opened.

Phillip felt the frantic flutter of her belly under his fingers and drew his head back. The hand on her hip darted up as quickly and viciously as a striking snake, sliding over her ribs, between her bare breasts, curling over the back of her neck. His thumb pressed against the soft flesh under her chin, and stopped the scream before it could emerge. Val's shirt gathered at his elbow and revealed her bare skin to the open night.

"No, don't do that," Phillip murmured into her ear. His long fingers played with the fine hairs at the nape of her neck in an intimate gesture. Val wheezed softly, able to breathe but only just. Her heart beat against the cage of her ribs as if seeking escape. "I won't do anything. I won't do anything, so let's just lay here, hmm?"

She tested her arms. They were both pinned to her sides, one against the wall and the other against Phillip's hard chest. Feeling her fidget, his free hand squeezed her waist quellingly, disapproving. Val stilled. She wasn't about to go anywhere unless he moved away. Even if she got free, where would she go? He was between her and the door, and he was stronger too—

A faint summer breeze drifted through the open window and stirred the humid air.

"Will you be well-behaved?" Phillip asked, nosing into her hair. Val nodded, still thinking about that window. "Good girl. You always did listen well to me."

Her skin prickled with hate, and she held herself from violently recoiling away from him. What could she say to convince him to move? How could she reach the window?

"Phil, it's—it's hot," Val complained, her voice a tiny wisp of air. Phillip lifted his head and scrutinized her face, considering. He must have seen what he was looking for, because his thumb fell away from her windpipe. Val cleared her throat a few times before saying, "I want to sleep, but you're overheating me."

"Am I?" asked Phillip. He looked at her face again, glanced at her almost naked body. There was no point along her side that he was not touching; his face was pressed into her hair, his chest trapping her arm, his stomach over her hip, one of his legs slung over one of hers, and rigid against her thigh was…

Val wanted to throw up.

With her shirt gathered around her collarbones, the dim light caught the sheen of sweat on her forehead, under her breasts, along the dip of her belly, all along the skin where he was pressed against her. Phillip's thumb dragged slick circles in the moisture on the hollow of her neck. "I suppose I am. Do you promise not to scream or throw a fit? I don't want you thinking it's okay to hit me. I wouldn't want to hurt you by accident."

The threat was obvious, but Val planned to do neither of those things. "Yes, I promise," she said, nodding docilely. If she ever wanted to hurt him, she wouldn't be using her fists, and it wouldn't be from a fit. She'd use a knife, silently, as he slept, after years of biding her time. It wouldn't happen, but the thought calmed her.

Phillip gave her another long look, nosing her hair one more time. He drew back.

He didn't let go of her entirely, just loosened his grip, but that was all Val needed. She immediately tore up to her feet and dove out of the window. Her room was on the second floor, but right next to her window was a tall sturdy apple tree with reaching branches. To this day, Val couldn't figure out how she'd made her way down that tree, but she slipped down like an eel and hurtled across the backyard with bare feet. She didn't once glance back at the window.

Val rushed into the garage and immediately sealed herself into the car. She hunkered down. The family always kept their car unlocked and the keys in the glove box, because it was convenient and Bristol Township was safe. Or safe enough, as long as the property fence was kept tightly bound and the main garage door remained shut. With all the car doors locked and the keys in Val's hand, Phillip couldn't reach her here.

As if summoned, Phillip appeared in the side door of the garage like a wraith, his skin ghost white in the moonlight and his hair a dark riot over black eyes. He had taken the time to put on shoes.

He didn't move from the doorway. They watched each other in tense silence. Neither of them moved. Her lungs felt like they were going to burst from holding her breath.

Finally, Val looked away. She slid back the driver's seat until she was comfortably situated for a nap, ready to spend the rest of the night here. When she looked back, Phillip was gone and the door hung open and empty.

The next day, Val installed four deadbolts to her bedroom door.

* * *

Vasilisa, nearly eighteen, began college that very September.

Even though she could transit daily to Gotham University with little issue, she registered to the dormitories as soon as she got the chance, and spent her semesters studying furiously to justify this decision. She filled up her summers with even more courses, and stayed over at friends' homes as often as possible during any breaks in between.

No matter where she slept, Val never again forgot to lock the door.

She and Phillip graduated at the same time. Once she learned that he was returning to Gotham to work for Daggett Enterprises, Val escaped Gotham to attend Metropolis University's college of medicine. This cut nearly all contact between them for a good four years.

It was four years of bliss. But then she had to return to Gotham to complete her residency, and it was impossible to avoid Phillip with nearly as much success. He knew where she worked, and had the means to find out _when_ she worked.

Val couldn't avoid the wolf at her door forever. She needed a new method of dealing with him.

And so she went on the attack.

* * *

"Soo? Tell me about your new boyfriend," said Mrs Stryver, swirling her spoon in her mashed potatoes and blinking eagerly. Her white curls were a riotous halo around her round, white face. "You look so happy; he must be quite a catch."

"A new one?" asked Mr Stryver, squinting through his wire-rim glasses. He was ignoring his half-eaten dinner to fiddle with the e-reader that Val had gotten him for Christmas. It was a first-generation 'Kindle'. She'd bought three of them back in November, had sat patiently at her computer and refreshed the page every ten minutes so that she could buy the thing as soon as it went on sale. Good thing too, because it sold out five hours later. "What happened to the last one? The big one who liked gambling?"

"He didn't like gambling, it's just that his surname was Gambol," Val reminded her father, carelessly swishing a forkful of roast beef in the pool of gravy on her plate. "We broke up last year because he couldn't keep his business matters out of our relationship." In other words, she had gotten shot at by some of Maroni's thugs during one of the mob's turf wars.

Val had been hopping mad about it, too, storming directly to Michael Gambol's house to yell at him. He'd been properly contrite, swearing to tear Maroni's head off his neck, but she and Michael already hadn't been a good fit personality-wise. They eventually agreed that breaking up was for the best.

The next day, she was approached by Sal Maroni with an apology and an invitation to dinner. He told her he'd seen her on Gambol's arm at one function or another, and had been stunned by how beautiful she was. Maroni was suave and had a roguish grin so she'd decided to give it a go, but then it turned out he was a married asshole who had probably orchestrated her whole break-up with Gambol. Val hadn't been impressed, and shut Maroni right down when he suggested going back to her place that night.

Val swore to herself, then: no more messing around with mob bosses. Even if their men's patrols did deter Phillip from lurking nearby.

"Good riddance, too. He was just so… you know…" Mrs Stryver put a hand to her throat and struggled to find the right word, doing her utter best not to say something that could be considered racist. "Intimidating. Like he could snap you in half by accident. Oh, I liked the one before him, John-something?"

"John Daggett," said Phillip stonily. He lounged in the seat next to hers, one hand spread open on the table. The other, hanging loose at his side, tightened into a fist. "My _boss_."

Val looked at him through her lashes. "Oh Phil, you're not still mad about that, are you? I told you I hadn't known he was your boss when I met him," she said, fighting to keep the hidden taunt out of her voice. She gave him a look that was appropriately doleful and ingenuous. Under the dining table, she shifted to touch her knee to his, sliding her foot along his calf. Immediately, he moved his leg so that their thighs were tightly pressed against each other. "And I made sure to end things with him on good terms so it wouldn't negatively impact your work."

In fact, Val was almost certain Daggett was still in love with her, or at least still wanted her. He was the hidden ace in her pocket in case Phillip took things too far. Daggett wouldn't be able to stop things from happening in the moment, but revenge sure would taste sweet.

"Why did you break up with John, anyway?" Mrs Stryver asked, oblivious to what was going on underneath the table. "He was such a gentleman. And so very well-off, too! Why, being the CEO of such a big company, he must make more money in a month than any normal person makes in their life."

"You just like that he bought you a new refrigerator," Val laughed. She moved her leg away from Phillip and crossed it over her other leg, her skirt riding up from her knee. Pretending not to notice Phillip's hooded, covetous gaze at the flash of pale thigh that this movement revealed, she replied, "He wanted me to quit my training and become some domestic woman who would take care of house and home. I was almost near the end of my residency, too; there was no way I was going to do _that_." He didn't explicitly say so, but it was clear that Daggett had planned to marry her; if he hadn't been such a dick, maybe she would have let him.

Mrs Stryver looked puzzled, as if she couldn't fathom why Val was so against this idea, but Mr Stryver nodded sternly. "You did the right thing. There is no reason _my_ bright and clever daughter should give up her promising career to become an accessory on some louse's arm."

"He didn't deserve you anyway," Phillip interjected grimly. He hunched forward in his seat to take a sip of wine, casually reaching for Val's glass instead of his own, as if by an honest accident. The hand that he had by his side rose under the table and circled her knee, his palm a heavy, feverish weight. As he leaned back, the hand on her knee pulled back with him, dragging her skirt up higher on her leg.

Phillip's fingers stroked the smooth flesh of her inner thigh, and Val felt a shiver of some strong feeling—not quite revulsion, as she was too used to this for that, but perhaps closer to loathing—and she lightly placed her fingers on the back of his hand. She touched the thin skin there, running her nails softly over the swelling line of a vein. Out the corner of her eye, she could see Phillip swallow and clench her wine glass with white knuckles.

Then Val pinched him, hard. With nails.

A slow wince spread over his face, although he hid it under another sip of wine. It was obvious to her that Phillip was trying to endure the pain so as to keep his hand where it was, but eventually he couldn't stifle his reaction and snatched it back. The fragile skin on the back of his hand was red and beginning to swell, round white crescent marks marking an uneven curve along his most visible vein. Satisfaction diffused through her blood like ink through water.

Val stood up, then, to distract their parents from Phillip's cringing recoil. "I'm feeling dessert. Anyone else?"

"Me," said Mr Stryver, glancing back to his new Kindle. Phillip grunted, his wild eyes drifting after Val as she moved away.

Val struggled to keep the triumph off her face and only half succeeded.

Mrs Stryver also got up. "Here darling, let me help you," she said. Together they left for the kitchen and came back, arms laden with cake and pie and hot chocolates. As she put down her burdens, Mrs Stryver explained, "I tried out a new recipe for eggnog pie that I learned from the Wayne Manor's butler when I met him in town. I hope I did it justice."

Val smiled at her mother and sat next to her, placing her diagonal from Phillip and out of reach. "I'm sure you did," she said soothingly.

"Now, tell me about your new boyfriend," repeated Mrs Stryver, once all the desserts had been distributed. "You know I love hearing about them every time you find a new one."

"Good thing, too, because it seems to me that Val is never _without_ a boyfriend," Phillip said sullenly.

"Oh, don't begrudge your sister a busy love life," said Mrs Stryver. "She's so lovely and darling that it would be surprising if men _weren't_ flocking to her."

* * *

There was a reason why the Stryvers spoke so much about Val's boyfriends on Christmas. There was a reason why she treated Christmas, and not any other holiday, like she was going into battle.

Birthdays and Thanksgiving and short visits—those were all in the day. They were safe because they did not require Val to sleep at her parents' house while Phillip was there.

Christmas was different. Both she and Phillip were expected to stay overnight for Christmas. That was why, the first year of her residency in Gotham Hospital, she had brought along a date.

Carl Finch was an attorney she'd met at the hospital during the summer; he'd come to talk to a client who had undergone surgery for a ruptured aneurysm, while she was there because her chief resident had assigned her to observe this patient's surgery and follow up. While the presiding doctor checked over the patient, Carl, who had been standing quietly next to her, struck up a conversation that eventually led to an invitation to coffee. He had a sweet face and a kind demeanor, but more importantly, he was the district attorney.

Val said yes.

That Christmas, she'd brought him along to dinner. Phillip had been more subtle than usual, but his behaviour remained as invasive and perverse as ever. Val dumped Finch a month later.

The next Christmas, she'd brought a very buff detective from the police force. Oddly enough, Phillip seemed even less deterred by him than he was by Finch, which probably meant he was a bent cop, so Val dumped the man a few days later.

And then: John Daggett.

Oh, she'd worked _very_ hard on John Daggett. There was a reason he still wanted her back, even after all this time. If Val had ever had any stops, she'd pulled them all out for John. After all, who better to stop Phillip in _his_ tracks, put him in _his_ place, make _him_ feel uncomfortable for once, other than his very own boss? John had been a right piece of work, but Val had hung on patiently for more than two years because he'd just been so… effective. A word from him kept her unbothered all year long. The glorious, vicious thrill she got every time she saw Phillip's gloomy, bitter glower more than made up for John's many short-comings.

But then Daggett tried to stop her from getting her medical licence, and if there was _one_ thing she had in common with Phillip, it was this: career came before all else, except maybe their parents. Her desire to nettle Phillip and keep him at bay far paled to her desire to do whatever the hell she wanted with her life (which happened to include being a neurosurgeon).

She dropped Daggett like a hot rock and picked up the next best thing.

Michael Gambol was a six foot tall mob boss who could punch you in the face and grab your spine while at it, then send his men to exterminate your entire family. He was also the most gentlemanly of the big mob bosses, although of course that wasn't saying too much. Certainly, he'd been more of a gentleman than Daggett.

Michael was, in her opinion, an immaculately dressed hunk, and his effect on Phillip and her unfortunately prejudiced parents was astonishingly funny, though for different reasons. If it wasn't for the whole mob part of their relationship, and also his predilection towards arrogance, impatience, and bullheadedness, she probably would have kept him.

Last Christmas was different. Last Christmas, she didn't have a powerful man in her pocket. The reason Val had skipped last year's Christmas visit was because of Jonathan Crane—and not just because she was having too much fun with him to leave her flat, although there was that too.

The problem was, Jonathan didn't pose enough of a threat to her brother. He wasn't physically intimidating, and he wasn't in any position to either fire Phillip or send him to prison. He was just… a skinny academic.

Val found Jonathan incredibly attractive and smart and interesting, and he was the best boyfriend she'd ever had, but he wouldn't deter Phillip at all. And yet she wanted to keep Jonathan anyway, which put her in quite a conundrum.

The thing about her brother was, when he didn't see her for a long while, he did not simply forget about her; rather, after an extended absence, the next time he saw her he would crowd her even more, become more possessive, more touchy, more… creepy.

That was why Val should have expected what was coming next.

* * *

It was late, and Val couldn't sleep. Her stomach was unsettled from all the eggnog. She was thirsty. Her room was hot. She tossed and turned in her old bed for hours before giving up and padding into the kitchen to make tea.

While she put the kettle to boil, she felt him step into the dark kitchen and watch her. She suddenly became self-conscious of her bare feet, the enormous shirt she wore to sleep, and the tangle of her hair kept pinned in place with a pen. A butterfly fluttered and blossomed in her belly, and died, and she felt sick, nauseous…

It was dark. Their parents were sleeping. She was half-dressed. They were alone.

Phillip had always been at his most dangerous in the dead of night.

"Vasilisa," he called, the tender whisper of a lover. Her hands fisted the fabric of her shirt. Val searched and searched, but the pointed confidence of earlier was nowhere to be seen.

She shouldn't have come out of her room tonight. She shouldn't have goaded him so much at dinner. Val had forgotten, after so many years of having a man by her side to ward her brother off. She'd forgotten that she didn't have that kind of protection right now.

She'd forgotten that he could do this. That he _would_ do it.

"Don't," she said, because she hadn't the strength to pretend ingenuity now—oh, that felt so long ago—

"I don't understand why you keep rejecting me for _them_," said he, low and dark. Phillip shuffled closer still and she felt his breath stirring her hair; her skin broke out in gooseflesh. Her mouth became as dry as ash. "Those trash men. They don't deserve you. No one deserves you but me. You already know that nobody else will feel about you the way I do—"

Val couldn't bear to let him continue, so she didn't. "Stop," she snapped, not bothering to bury the desperation in her. "You're my _brother_."

"Even if that were true," Phillip hissed in her ear, wet and slippery, sliding a scalding hand under her shirt. Up it dragged, over her thigh and hip and stomach, in a noxious stripe of fire. He put his mouth to the shoulder bared by the gaping neck of her collar in a sick mockery of what Jonathan had done last night. "I don't see how it would stop me."

She experienced then a white-hot moment of terror. It paralyzed her like nothing ever had, stuck her feet to the floor and glued her hands to the cold countertop. Her mind was blank.

Phillip did not miss this chance. There was a hot, damp flash of pain on the curve where her shoulder melted into her neck, and then the touch of a tongue against the ache.

Acid rose in her throat. Val's eyes darted around wildly, looking for a projectile, a blunt object—anything to make him go away.

Her gaze settled on the boiling kettle and lingered. She wrenched her eyes away.

Oh, Val wanted to—and _how_ she wanted to—but she couldn't kill Phillip Stryver. She couldn't even bear to give him lasting injury. She owed the Stryvers her life and everything she'd ever loved and cherished. Indeed, if it wasn't for that, Phillip would have died by her hand a very long time ago.

By what means could you measure the worth of saving a life? How could you ever repay such a debt?

Val didn't know, but it certainly wasn't in the degree of the heartbreak you caused your benefactors, or the number of times you stabbed their only pride and joy, the precious, shining star they revolved around.

Phillip had been a child nearly impossible to beget. After almost two decades of failures and miscarriages, thousands upon thousands of dollars, and many, many anguished curses at God later, the Stryvers had given up on ever having a child.

And then, one year after they'd lost all hope, Mrs Stryver got pregnant again. There was no miscarriage. The child was delivered at a healthy weight and without a single congenital problem.

It was a miracle of an unfathomable magnitude. Even the doctors had been shocked. After all, Mrs Stryver's body hadn't been able to support an infant even in her twenties, and she was already forty. Add to that Mr Stryver's low sperm count and his history of exposure to pesticides during his youth on a farm, and successfully carrying a healthy child to term became something that only had a one-in-a-million chance of happening.

Phillip was that one in a million child.

The Stryvers became devout Christians again. They donated to charities. They adopted an orphan. They spoiled Phillip so rotten that it was a wonder he didn't turn out completely twisted. Even Val honestly found it a surprise that his only significant abnormality was his obsession with her.

Of course, perhaps you could say that he was twisted enough in this matter to make up for it.

Unable to find a non-lethal weapon, Val settled for the next best thing. She struck her elbow back into his stomach and stomped down, as hard as she could, with all the hate in her body, onto Phillip's unprotected foot.

Letting out a low, injured noise, he moved away just the slightest bit, lips separating from her shoulder. It wasn't enough; she couldn't stand the palm still on her bare belly.

Val flung out a fist wildly, blindly, wanting to put some more distance between them. Her brother was ready for her this time, though; he caught her arm by the wrist, and, when she spun and threw her other fist at his face, caught that one too. Val pushed against him with all of her weight, gathered up every morsel of strength in her body, but she only managed to make him stumble back a single step. And then Phillip gathered _his_ strength, and his grip on her wrists became so crushing Val imagined that she could hear her bones grinding together. A hot knife of jagged pain carved through her like butter, thundered through her like a storm. She couldn't help a soft cry of hurt.

When Phillip bore down on her, Val couldn't brace against it for long; she buckled like a marionette whose strings had been cut, and found herself pushed back, step by step, until her legs met the surface of the cabinets behind her. He did not even stop then, pressing forward so that the jut of his hips pinned her tightly against the hard cabinet doors. The edge of the marble counter dug deep into her back, and something else dug deep into her thigh. Val hoped to hell it was a cabinet handle.

She couldn't even recognize her brother at this angle, in these shadows. Phillip's eyes were so dark. There was simply no light in them at all, as if behind the mask of a man was a black hole that wanted to swallow her up. Val's pupils narrowed to tiny pinpoints lost in the sea of her irises; her body shook and flashed with pain and fear, pain and fear…

"Let go," Val panted, almost sobbing. She was leaning away from Phillip with her arms raised, bent nearly backwards over the counter. Her hips were in agony, her spine too, but worst of all were her wrists. She was trembling so hard it rattled her teeth. "It hurts, Phil, you're hurting me, let go, please let go—"

Phillip sighed and loosened his grip on her. Val did sob then, in relief. She tried to tug her arms back, but he hadn't really meant to let them go. He only slid his palms down to observe the deep red marks circling her wrists like shackles. The skin was already bruising.

"Oh, Vasilisa. Look what's happened," Phillip said dolefully, shaking his head with disappointment. He brought her wrists to his mouth one at a time and gently kissed the purpling skin, as if to make it better. The back of his left hand still had faint marks from dinner, but it gave her no satisfaction now. "I told you before, didn't I? I told you that it's not okay to hit me. I _told_ you that I don't want to hurt you by accident. Why didn't you listen? You used to be so good at listening."

_I wish you would die_, Val thought, her eyes alight with bone-chilling wrath. Loathing thrummed along her veins in crashing waves. _Die. Die. Die. I want to kill you. Just die._

"What a way to look at your own brother," Phillip breathed, sounding almost delighted by Val's hateful glare. He bent over her, his face so close that he could share her every breath, feel her exhalations stirring against his lips. One of Phillip's hands released her arm and made its way to her jaw. He curved his fingers around the side of her head, rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone in a lover's caress. "_Vasilisa the beautiful_. You truly deserve your name. If you weren't so beautiful, I wouldn't have become like this. Do you even know how much I want you? How much I love you?"

Phillip lowered his head, brought his face even closer to hers. He closed his eyes. His lips brushed hers. Val's heart clenched in her chest like a fist, and she felt her lungs filling up with ice.

Behind them, the kettle screamed for attention.

Phillip took a step away from her.

The kettle continued to scream. Above them, the floorboard creaked with movement on the second floor.

With one last lingering glance at her, Phillip left the kitchen.

Val waited until she could be sure he was gone. Her pulse beat angrily against her eardrums. When she heard creaking on the top step of the staircase, she finally reached over and turned the stove off.

Then she raced to her room, gathered all of the belongings she'd brought with her, and quietly rushed back down. Without even changing her clothes, she got into her car, started the engine, and drove away from the house.

Val had thought she was heading to her apartment, but when she blinked back into awareness, she was standing at Jonathan's door, watching it open with a soft creak.

"Who the hell… Do you know what time it is?" Jonathan demanded, his voice husky and rasping. He'd obviously just gotten out of bed; he was shirtless, and his hastily tugged-on sweatpants hung low on his hips. His hair was a mess. Val could identify the exact moment he recognized her on his doorstep, the slow ripple of recognition and then surprise. "Val? I thought you…" Jonathan saw, then, her overall state of disrepair and her expression, as cold and vacant as an unfilled room. He dropped that line of questioning and immediately stepped forward, reaching for her back to usher her along, "Come in."

Val winced when his hand touched her waist, where the counter had born a narrow, bruising line. This did not escape Jonathan's notice, and neither did the flash of a round, red mark under the shifting collar of her shirt.

His gaze darkened. A storm passed over his face, but he said nothing, simply closed the door behind them.

Val stood in the middle of the unlit entry hall. The fear drifted away like a receding tide and all that was left was exhaustion. Phillip had never gotten violent before. What would he have done, if the kettle hadn't woken their parents? What came after the kiss?

Val didn't know. Perhaps even Phillip did not know.

It was the not-knowing that got her.

She was already thirty-one. Vasilisa was a grown fucking woman, and she was still being chased around by her bogey-man of a brother. The thought of spending the rest of her life dodging left and right, quivering in her boots every time she was alone in a room with him, made her just… so tired. It felt as if she was in a sinking ship on an empty stretch of sea.

How long did she have to live like this? Hiding and running away and erecting temporary barriers between herself and her brother, as if she was still that scared teenage girl? Until he got married? Until she was no longer beautiful? Until one of them died?

"What happened?" asked Jonathan, approaching her from behind. He slid his hands down her shoulders to her forearms and lifted them slowly, turning them one at a time to appraise the purple bruises circling around her wrists. The clear outline of Phillip's hands would brand her until they healed. "Was it your brother?"

Val nodded, leaning her head back to rest it against Jonathan's collarbones. The neck of her shirt slipped down her shoulder again, and the red mark of a hickey glowed like an ember against her pale skin. "But he didn't… he didn't do much."

"How can you call this _not much_?" Jonathan demanded, his voice strained with the effort of keeping his volume under control. It was like he knew that if he yelled at her, she might really cry. "He… did he touch you?"

_Define touch_, Val thought dryly. "He didn't rape me, if that's what you're asking," she said instead, with the caustic tone of someone who had worried about the same thing for so long that she became desensitized to it. "That's his line in the sand."

If she wasn't reading things wrong, though, tonight that line had stood a very good chance of washing away.

"I'm going to kill him," Jonathan hissed, his glass eyes burning supernova-bright in the shadows.

"Jon," Val called, her voice small and vulnerable. "Let's not talk about it. I just want to sleep. Let's go to bed, okay?"

There was a long silence, and then a soft sigh. "Okay," said Jonathan, wrapping his arms around her in a warm embrace. "Let's go to bed."

* * *

It was six in the morning. The room was dark and silent. The moon was the only luminous spot in the winter sky.

Jonathan Crane lay awake in bed, his face carved of stone. He held his lover close to his chest. Her soft, slow breaths ghosted across his neck. The covers had been pushed away from her earlier tossing and turning. He reached down and pulled it back up, settling it carefully around her shoulders.

Vasilisa sighed sweetly and burrowed deeper into his arms. Jonathan lowered his face and kissed the top of her head. As his lips pressed into her silken hair, he whispered quietly, tenderly, "Don't worry, love. I'm going to take care of this problem for you."

Under his lowered lashes, his eyes were two chips of ice.

* * *

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**Notes—**

Vasilisa the Beautiful is an old russian fairytale about a girl named Vasilisa who was, as you might guess, beautiful. Feat: faraway dad, mean step-mother and sisters, a sentient doll, and the cannibalistic witch Baba Yaga. And, peripherally, the three riders.

Phillip is only a year older than Val, so I'm not sure if I can call it predation, but it sure feels like it. He wasn't supposed to be such a major character when I started writing, but goddamn it, he's just so fascinating. Who let him be so interesting! GAH!

The rest of the story needs an overall warning, too, although the fandom itself intrinsically carries its own yellow caution sign.

**Blanket Warnings**: Lots and lots of sexual harassment, mild gore, unhealthy relationships, moral depravity, general lunacy. Lots of yandere behaviour.

You will also sometimes (often) dip into in the perspective of the main character, a woman whose concepts of right and wrong are _almost_ in all the normal places, except everything is shifted two feet to the left. Sometimes, she's just an idiot. Don't expect common sense to always apply.


	2. the Bright Day,

**Fairest, Fairest**

* * *

**II. The Bright Day**

* * *

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.

.

For the next six days, Val did not leave Jonathan's apartment except to go to work at the hospital.

They spent nearly every non-working hour together. Even for things as mundane as grocery shopping, Jonathan accompanied her without complaint. Sometimes when she was out with him, or in the rare moments she was alone, she could see out of the corner of her eye the same muscular thug following her placidly, from a meticulously maintained distance. Once or twice, she'd even seen the man giving her a polite nod.

This adoption of an around the clock sentinel wasn't because Val was scared. In fact, she'd long gotten over the incident with Phillip, filed it under the list of the many, many unsettling things her brother had done.

Rather, it was because of Jonathan. He was wary. And, more than that, he was angry.

Oh, he didn't say as much—Jonathan remained as soft spoken as ever, with his customary deadpan humor and even tone, and he didn't make any mention of Phillip after she'd told him not to that disastrous night—but Val could tell he was _furious_. It was in the way his lip rose into an unconscious sneer when she mentioned her family, the way his blue-sky eyes would turn cold and glassy when he was still and quiet.

He touched his suitcase a lot, too. That was something she'd noticed about him for a while now. When he was angered or threatened by something, Jonathan would start fiddling with his suitcase. Val had gotten him that suitcase for his birthday last November, but he hadn't had this tic at the time. If she wasn't mistaken, it had developed in the past year or half-year.

Val didn't know what was in that suitcase, nor did she want to. She was better off not knowing. And really, there was nothing wrong with a little bit of security. In the aftermath of the Christmas dinner, it wasn't a bad idea to keep something like a gun at hand in case they needed to scare Phillip off. It didn't interfere with her work, and it wasn't as if her brother hadn't approached her out of the blue before. That was how Jonathan had met him.

Luckily, with Jonathan being a skinny, soft-spoken psychiatrist rather than a mob boss or a big shot CEO or a righteous DA, she didn't have to worry about him getting violent or taking any drastic measures.

Val liked that about Jonathan. He didn't make her worry, not about his safety or hers or even her repugnant brother's. Being with him was so soothing. So normal. Even though she _knew_ he was angry, he only expressed it to her through his libido, which had exploded in the week she spent sleeping over. And, well—she certainly wasn't complaining.

But in all the rush of affection, there was something very, very important that Vasilisa was forgetting.

When it came to the people who had spent their whole lives in Gotham, there was one hard and fast rule: normal wasn't real. If you met a normal Gothamite, all that meant was that they were very, very good at hiding their secrets.

And, well. Jonathan Crane was Gotham born and bred.

* * *

New year's eve.

Soft music played in the background; the smell of something delicious in the oven permeated the apartment. Val lounged on Jonathan's living room sofa, spread full on her front with her chin perched on her hand. She was watching him cook. Both Val and Jonathan had finished their shifts at work early for the day, and the plan was to have a quiet night watching the count-down on T.V.

It was a good plan. It was a good plan that was definitely going to end in a lot of sex. That made it an even better plan, she thought, watching the bare forearms revealed by Jon's folded up sleeves shift and flex as he lifted the pot of boiling pasta. An excellent plan, in fact.

"That shirt looks so good on you. Whoever bought it for you has such great taste," Val said, reaching out to pour more champagne into her glass.

"Thank you. I'll tell my girlfriend you said so," said Jonathan, not looking up from his task.

"You have a girlfriend?" Val teased, kicking her bare feet behind her. "And here I thought I had a chance."

He glanced up at her then, a flash of his blue eyes and a tiny tug at the corner of his mouth. Then Jonathan returned to straining the noodles in the sink as if nothing had happened. "It's rather disappointing, isn't it? But I'm a taken man, so it's quite impossible for us."

"No way, I don't believe you! What's her name?"

Jonathan put the pot down and looked up to the ceiling, considering this. "Her name," he began, very seriously. His face was a study in neutrality. His brow quirked. "Is Jasilisa."

Val pressed her face into the arm of the couch to muffle her laughter. She laughed so hard that she could feel her face turning red, and then when she thought she was finally calming down, she glanced up and saw Jonathan staring sternly at her, and exploded into more peals of laughter. She had to put a hand over her eyes to block out the sight of him so she could even breathe.

"Oh, _Jasilisa_," Val wheezed, tears in her eyes. "That bitch! Yes, yes, I know her." She buried her face into her hands and shook with giggles.

Val was, perhaps, just a little bit drunk. The champagne that Jonathan had bought for the occasion was amazingly good. It was fortunate he'd bought two bottles, because she almost couldn't stop herself from draining glass after glass.

"Do you plan to help with the spaghetti, Dr. Prekrasnaya, or would I be better off expecting help from the ghost in the corner?" called Jonathan, catching her eye. He pointed his tongs at the corner of the kitchen to emphasize his point; it was empty of any figure, ghostly or otherwise.

Asking for a hand from the ghost in the corner was one of their favorite jokes, invoked whenever one of them was idling instead of doing whatever they were meant to be doing. Basically, it was a nicer way of saying, 'You're driving me crazy with your lazing around'. It also worked for when you knew the other party had eaten your ice cream but they wouldn't fess up, and when you couldn't find something, blamed your partner for having moved it, and then remembered that you'd been the one to have misplaced it (but only after finding it). 'Damn that ghost in the corner, playing tricks on me again,' was something Val had said to an amused Jonathan an unfortunate number of times.

Jonathan's wryly expectant face only induced her into another fit of giggles. When Val finally calmed down enough to speak again, she made absolutely no move to leave the couch; she just blinked up coyly at her boyfriend and arched her back so that her cleavage became more obvious over the arm of the sofa.

"Oh, I don't know Dr. Crane, I think I need a bit of help myself," Val said, not moving an inch. She sent Jonathan a flirty little smile over her fingers. "I keep seeing a handsome man in the kitchen, but I _know_ he's not supposed to be there."

His mouth twitched, and he raised a wry brow. He put down his tongs, leaving the spaghetti unplated, and began to make his way around the kitchen island. "And, pray tell, where is this handsome man _supposed_ to be, then?" the handsome man asked, playing along.

Val gave him a look so evocative it belonged in a pin-up and said, "Why, in my bed of course."

Jonathan huffed out a low laugh and shook his head. "According to my diagnosis, Dr. Prekrasnaya, you appear to be suffering from a bit of thirst," he declared sternly, striding towards the sofa with purpose. His cloudless-sky eyes were bright and amused. "My prescribed treatment is," he began, bending down and cupping her chin in his palm, "this."

Jonathan leaned in and kissed her fiercely. Just as Val was surging up and letting out a soft sigh, he broke away. "And," he breathed, reaching out for a champagne flute on the side table, "this."

Without looking away from her dazed eyes, he brought the flute to her mouth and tilted it so the champagne wet her lips. Val swallowed mouthful after mouthful, not minding the little bit that leaked out of the corner of her lips and meandered down her chin. She never dropped his steady gaze. When the glass was finished and her mouth was glistening, her eyes flickered to his belt.

"After dinner," Jonathan said, looking like he wanted to laugh again. He backed away from her swiping hand with a teasing smirk. She whined.

"You tease. You, you—you villain!" Val called after him, still making grabbing motions over the side of the couch. "Fiend!"

"Oh, Vasilisa," Jonathan replied, eyes gleaming and mouth pulled into an indolent smirk. "You have no idea."

* * *

"And five! Four! Three! Two! One! Happy New Year!" cried the television, flashing with a dazzling display of lights and fireworks.

At Jonathan's side, Vasilisa pushed herself up and craned her neck to land a sloppy kiss, missing his mouth for his cheek. "Happy new year," she giggled. Unsteady with alcohol, her arms lost strength and she slipped away, her head slumping back against his shoulder. Jonathan followed her descent and turned his face to align their lips.

"Happy new year," he said, kissing her properly.

Val's mouth tasted of expensive champagne and the tiramisu from dessert. Jonathan curled his arm around her waist and tugged her sideways onto his lap. "Mm," she breathed, before suddenly bursting into giggles again.

"What is it?" Jonathan sighed, breaking the kiss. Val peered up at him from under her long, fair lashes, her forehead leaning on his. Their breaths mingled. It would have been more of an intimate moment if it hadn't been because she was so drunk she couldn't quite support her own head.

"Zsasz is _such_ a funny name," Vasilisa said. Under his palm, Jonathan could feel her shoulders shaking with silent laughter. "I wonder if he knows it's a palindrome?"

Jonathan sighed again, this time with feeling. "You heard about that?"

"Was in the courthouse for a colleague's lawsuit," she agreed, drawing little circles into his collarbones with a single fingertip. "I'm an expert with lots of good testimony, you see. Saw that little attorney huffing and puffing at you."

Jonathan felt his expression shutter, and his mouth turned a hard line. "Ms _Daw_es," he drawled disdainfully, "Thought it within her purview to make a number of unpleasant implications about my business with Mr Falcone and his thugs."

"You didn't like her? I thought she was cute," said Val. Her weight slipped into the space between Jonathan's legs and she leaned her head to rest on his shoulder. "All bright-eyed and righteously determined."

"I'm not inclined to go around judging how cute other women are or are not," Jonathan told her dryly. He smoothed his free hand over Val's slender legs and appreciated the solid weight of her in his arms. She was laying loose-boned against his body, relying entirely on him to hold her up. It was the thoughtless trust of someone who could not fathom fear of him, and had no intention of causing fear in him. "Particularly when I already have someone far better than 'cute' sitting in my lap."

"I feel like you're saying I'm not cute," Val complained huffily. Her mouth curved into a teasing smile against his neck. "Tell me I'm cute."

Jonathan felt his mouth twitch in amusement. "Very cute," he agreed.

Val laughed breathily, a rapid staccato of short breaths warming his skin, and pressed a quick kiss under his jaw. "So what was it?" she asked, pressing her cold nose into his warm skin. "Was Zssassz really crazy, or _did_ you have business with Falcone?"

"You tell me. Whose money do you think you've been drinking like water all evening?"

Val sat up and considered the two thin bottles sitting empty on the side table beside them. Jonathan had only had two glasses, and the rest of it had happily disappeared down her throat.

"Thank Mr Falcone for the good champagne for me," she told Jonathan, very sternly. Then she put her head back down on his shoulder and allowed her long lashes to fall to her cheeks. Yawning, she mumbled, "And tell him he should go easy on the cute attorney girl. She might just put him in jail after all."

Jonathan looked down at his armful of girlfriend with hooded eyes and a faint smile. Vasilisa became very silly when she was drunk. He disliked silly people as a matter of principle, but Val was usually so self-contained that he found that he didn't mind it when she became like this.

This was a first for him. In fact, this whole relationship was just a number of firsts.

When Jonathan Crane had seen Vasilisa Prekrasnaya striding around on stage in that tight red skirt, confidently reporting her keen insights on the psychopathic mind and on fear, of all things, he was struck with such visceral and fierce _want_ that it had blind-sided him.

It hadn't even been pure physical desire. No, Jonathan wouldn't have been surprised over such a thing. It was more than that: it was the desire to talk to her, to know her thoughts, her story, her raison d'être.

He'd met beautiful women before. They were not in short supply. He'd met intelligent women, too. Those were somewhat scarcer, but that was simply indicative of the human race in general. Dr Prekrasnaya's lecture was not so revolutionary, nor her observations so brilliant, to warrant such a response in him. And yet, he'd been standing in front of her opening discussion almost before he knew it.

Perhaps it was her credentials that did it. Perhaps it was the way she moved, that fluid and unflinching grace that made it seem as if she could face any obstacle and slide effortlessly around it. Perhaps it was the unconcerned way she spoke of dealing with Gotham's unusually disturbing and unusually many psychopaths. Perhaps it was her sincere fascination with the contents of the human brain and her tangible desire to plunge its secrets. It could even have been the way she had organized her slides, which spoke of a clean and competent manner that was not so easily found, even among fellow professionals.

Perhaps it was all of those things.

Jonathan had been so transfixed that he'd even forgotten to mask the intensity of his interest. Somehow, it hadn't even mattered. Vasilisa either didn't notice or she didn't care. A first, and a matter to further pique his curiosity.

He hadn't meant to sleep with her that night. Truly, he hadn't. He also hadn't meant to sit next to her on the plane, hadn't meant to flirt with her the entire journey, hadn't meant to start dating her seriously upon their return to Gotham, hadn't meant to stay with her for nearly two years and what looked, hopefully, to be the rest of his life. Jonathan did not do things that he did not mean to, and especially not so many things, in such quick succession.

He had never once considered permanently attaching himself to another person. It was yet another baffling first.

Jonathan Crane wasn't one to date. It wasn't that he had not, or that he could not. He occasionally had women in his bed when his body saw fit to remind him that he, too, was a man. Even more infrequently, he allowed himself to acquire steady girlfriends when he was struck with the rare and short-lived desire for companionship that ran deeper than a warm body under him. Jonathan Crane didn't date simply because he didn't want to: he wasn't particularly fond of the process or the result.

Despite what his bookish appearance might suggest, Dr Crane did not find it hard to attract women. They were often charmed by his sharp blue eyes, his cheekbones, his quick wit. According to one of his past lovers, there was a magnetic eroticism to seeing a man who always wore his shirts buttoned to the neck roll up his shirtsleeves. And a strange thrill to be of the exclusive few who had the privilege to witness it.

However, those relationships never lasted too long. Eventually, the women became curious of his secrets, and then, when they tried to dig a little deeper, learned to be unnerved by the darkness that glimmered within him, just out of sight. They stopped being amused by his humor, which was as dry as kindling, and knew to wonder if he'd _meant_ to burn them with his offhand, cutting comments. They saw his lip rising as he spoke, and felt slighted by the deepening creases of his sneer. They heard the monotone of his voice, saw the boredom in his eyes, for what it was.

They began to doubt if Jonathan loved them, if he'd ever loved them.

They were right to doubt.

But—

Vasilisa.

After two years, she did not doubt. And she was right not to.

What was it about her? What was it?

That body. That face. That _mind_.

It was as if Vasilisa had found all of the features he appreciated in a woman, a person, and did him one better. Golden hair, creamy skin, rosebud mouth. Intellect that curved and leapt to meet his at every turn. Beauty that could drive a man to madness—that had, in fact, driven her own brother to madness. Gray-green eyes that flashed with intelligence even when clouded with pleasure.

_But soft, what light through yonder window breaks_, indeed. Jonathan did not like Shakespeare, but sometimes poetry knew what science did not.

As a girlfriend, too, he could not ask more of her. Vasilisa neither clung nor pried. She expected nothing from him, not money nor constant attention. He did not have to do everything for her, because she did everything for herself.

Jonathan enjoyed her independence, and he enjoyed even more when this independence faltered for need of him. It was a realization that followed his first meeting with her brother. Spurred by the thought of such a scum laying hands on her, Jonathan had almost suggested Vasilisa take self-defense lessons—then stopped before the words fell from his mouth. In the interim between thought and voice, it had dawned on him that he liked that Val was weaker than him. He _liked_ that she relied on him to protect her, especially because she was the kind of woman who didn't rely on anyone for anything.

But in the end, Jonathan's favorite part of her was none of those things.

No, his favorite part was this: Vasilisa Prekrasnaya was not afraid of anything. Not insects, not heights, not a man coming at her with a knife in his hand. The only thing that caused her to feel fear to any extent was her brother.

And in all honesty, this was a fear that Jonathan could understand. Phillip Stryver was a sickening, abhorrent creature; having to spend your childhood and adolescence with him hounding your every step would disturb anyone, let alone a little girl who was unable to resist his physical advances.

It was very possible that the horror of Phillip-fucking-Stryver had inured her to other fears. She did not even need Scarecrow's toxin. Get rid of the brother, and Vasilisa would become truly fearless. She would become, in all aspects of the word, perfect. The perfect woman.

And she was his. Soon, she would be his until death do them part.

But first—the brother.

"Maybe I shouldn't have let her drink so much," Jonathan mused, as Vasilisa's head lolled and he had to heft her higher on his shoulder to keep her from slumping off entirely. He turned off the T.V. and carried her to their room.

No, no. This was better. The more out of sorts Val was, the less likely she was to notice his absence and ask questions. He'd splurged on that champagne for a reason, after all. It would be fine if he prepared medicine and water on the nightstand.

He'd dote on her a bit tomorrow; she quite enjoyed that.

Settling Val into bed, Jonathan pulled the sheets around her shoulders and brushed her hair from her forehead. In a soft voice, he told her prone form, "I just have a bit of business to attend to, love. I'll be back soon."

Val did not answer. Her chest rose and fell with slow, deep breaths. Satisfied, Jonathan pulled on his coat and gloves, picked up his suitcase, and left the flat.

* * *

"She w-wON'T for_give_ you," Phillip Stryver hissed, his voice jumping with terror. He clung to the hands that held him over the freezing river for dear life as his mind squirmed and struggled against the burlap monster haunting him. Just like everyone who'd ever experienced the fear toxin, Stryver's eyes blurred and shook from its effects. It was a feat of incredible will that he could speak coherently at all.

Scarecrow glared down with his tattered face and rasped, "Of course she will."

"Scare—you—crow—_you_ think she hasn't kil—scare—killed me because she _can't_? I'm_ alive_ for a r-r-reason," Stryver said, a high, unsteady laugh shivering out of him. His body shook again, fear and another powerful emotion ripping through him. "_Scarecrow_. In Gotham. It's easy to… order a hit."

Scarecrow ignored him and flung one of Stryver's hands away from his collar. "She doesn't _need _a hit. _I'm _gonna kill you just because she loathes you. You keep looking at her with your dirty eyes—don't you know you have maggots festering in your sockets?" Scarecrow goaded, watching Stryver's unsteady, frantic hand reach to scrabble at his eye. "Can't you feel it? And yet you dare look at her?"

Wildered by the words, Stryver pushed and pushed further in until the fingers of his free hand had dug into his socket. A raw scream tore from his throat. "I KNOW SHE HATES ME," Stryver howled, scratching at his eye. "I KNOW I'm dirty—I can't help it, I can't—you understand, you—_Scarecrow_—"

Scarecrow idly watched the rivulets of blood drip from his victim's cheek onto his pristine white cuffs. Not so coherent after all. "You found her by the river, so it's only right for you to be returned to the river; poetic justice," he hummed, removing a hand from Stryver's collar and pulling another syringe from his pocket. He jabbed it into Stryver's straining neck, right into the bold line of his carotid artery. It was a fast-acting sedative, on the off chance the river current on its own wasn't strong enough to pull the bastard under.

Stryver's single dark eye burned cold against his pale, sweaty face. The other was savaged beyond repair, bloody and oozing. "Scarecrow. _Scarecrow_. She won't forgive y-you. She'll _never_ forgive you."

"We'll see," said Scarecrow, dropping Phillip Stryver into the icy torrent of the Gotham River.

* * *

Val awoke to an agonizing headache pounding behind her eyes. It was to the point that she couldn't even open them for fear that they'd be beaten out from the inside.

There was a cold hand on her cheek; it was a relief against the hot throb of her temples. She leaned into it. Her lashes fluttered. The hand left.

Another cool hand slid behind her back. Someone raised her by her shoulders until she was almost sitting up. A pill slipped onto her tongue and a glass of cool water was brought to her lips. She swallowed mindlessly.

Slowly, Val squinted her eyes so that they were half-open, which was as much as she could manage. Jonathan was standing beside the bed, leaning forward to help her drink the water. In the dim room, his day-bright eyes became a blue as black as midnight. Unfathomable.

A sweet, sharp smell drifted to her nose. Like iron. She looked down. The cuff of his sleeve was dark, glistening with some unknown liquid. It may have been brown. She wasn't sure.

The glass emptied. Val closed her eyes again. Jonathan lowered her back onto the bed and leaned over her to kiss her. He didn't smell like himself, but it was a nice scent. Salt and sea and the cold night wind. He smelled like the river.

Just as she felt herself slipping away with the lapping tide of sleep, she heard Jonathan speak.

"Everything's going to be fine when you wake up," he said, in a low, intimate whisper. "I've taken care of the problem, like I promised. Sleep well. _I love you_."

Content, Val drifted back into unconsciousness.

* * *

Unfortunately, the contentment did not last.

* * *

January 6, 2007.

Vasilisa was woken in the morning by a phone call from her mother. Shuffling a hand around the nightstand, she curled her fingers over her buzzing phone and shoved it to her ear.

"Yeah?" she groaned, rubbing a hand down her face. Val peeled her bleary eyes open, squinting against the sunlight streaming through the window. The other side of the bed was empty. Jonathan was already at work.

"Hi Val," said her mother, sounding worried. "Sorry to wake you."

"Not at all," Val said sleepily, struggling to sit up. "I've got to get up for work anyway. What is it?"

"I just wanted to ask, have you heard from your brother in the past few days? Has Phillip called, or—or dropped by at all?"

Val finally managed to escape her clinging blankets and sit up properly. "No," she said, staring blankly at the bookcase facing the bed. She blinked furiously, trying to get the sleep out of her eyes and focus on the conversation. "No, I haven't. I haven't seen or heard from him since Christmas. Is there a problem?"

"It's… Well, I don't know, but I think there is. I just got a call from someone from Phil's workplace, looking for him. Apparently he's in charge of some big project, but it's stalling because he's been missing work for the past several days. They say he won't answer his calls or his emails, and they even tried going to his apartment a few times, but he won't answer the door either. They said… they said, calling me was their last ditch effort. They said that if this continues by the end of the week, they'll have to fire him.

"You know how your brother is about his work, Val. This is all so unlike him! Oh, I'm just so worried. And I can't get in touch with Phillip either. The last time we spoke was on the thirtieth, he didn't even call me for New Year's Day. What if something happened to him? You have the spare key to his apartment, right?" Indeed Val did, although she hadn't wanted it and had planned to never use it. "Could you go and check in on him, make sure nothing's happened? I don't want to bother you if you're busy, but all these thoughts keep running through my head, and I just can't calm down…"

The more she spoke, the closer Mrs Stryver sounded to tears. By the end, her voice was so thick and heavy she might have already been crying. Val listened and sat in silence, trying to parse through the rush of words.

Indeed, this behavior was extremely unlike Phillip. He always called their parents on New Year's Day to give them good wishes, just as she did. And Phillip was the meticulous type who considered his career his life; he almost never missed a day of work. Plus, what about his apartment? If he wasn't there or at their parents', then where? He had no significant others or very close friends, hadn't for years. He'd been too… preoccupied.

Altogether, this painted a pretty grim picture. Being fired was currently the least of Phillip's worries.

There was a small sniffle on the other side of the line. Immediately, Val said, "No, no, you're not bothering me at all. I'll never be too busy for you. I'll get dressed and go to Phil's apartment right away."

"Oh, honey, thank you. You're such a good girl; I can always rely on you. I just hope nothing's happened to your brother."

"Me too," said Val, meaning it. "Call you soon."

Vasilisa hung up and began to dash around, throwing on clothes and gathering her purse. Phillip's apartment was uptown, which was a fair distance from her midtown flat. She'd have to hurry if she didn't want to be late for work.

Val picked up the fob for Phillip's apartment building but didn't bother looking for a door key. Phillip's door could be unlocked with a 4-digit number code. And Phillip used the same code for nearly everything, so it wasn't hard to remember what it was.

She called Phillip's cell a few times on her way to his place. He didn't pick up, which was unusual—he always picked up her calls, on the rare occasions she called him first—but not unexpected.

"You better not be dead, you asshole," Val hissed under her breath as she got out of her car.

She tried buzzing him at the front entrance first. There was still a chance that Phillip was home, and she very much didn't want to run the risk of being alone in his apartment with him. It was only when the call failed to go through three times that Val finally swiped the fob and made her way to his floor.

She knocked on his door, too, for the same reason. "Phil? Phillip!" she called, slamming her fist against the wood. No answer.

Val stared at the keypad deadlock. Dread sank and pooled in her gut. If she went in and he wasn't there, that meant he was probably dead. If she went in and he _was_ there, then… who knew what would happen? Either way, nothing good would come from going in.

But she had promised her mother.

There was nothing for it. Val sighed and braced herself.

1-2-2-1, she pressed. The door immediately unclicked and swung in. Val stared at the brightly lit keypad and tried not to think too much about it.

12/21.

December 21. Her birthday.

It would only disturb her if she thought about it. So Val determinedly _didn't_ think about it, and instead plunged into the gaping maw of the unlit flat.

"Hello?" Val called. She cautiously stepped through the hall and into the living room, which smelled a little dusty but was otherwise faultlessly tidy. It was empty, so she tried the kitchen, the bathroom, even the closets. All immaculate, all empty.

It was dark; the lights were off in the entire apartment. She turned them on as she went. It was quiet, too. The only noise came from Val; her breath, the rustle of her clothes, her voice. Even the hardwood floor was silent under her feet.

The flat was a decent size for a one-bedroom, but eventually she ran out of places to search. Finally, her feet brought her in front of the closed door of the bedroom. If Phillip was in this apartment at all, this was the most likely place he'd be, whether dead or alive.

Slowly, Val turned the knob. The door creaked open.

"Phillip?" she called, carefully craning her head beyond the doorframe.

No reply. Val pushed the door open the rest of the way and scanned the room. It was so clean that she could eat off of the floor.

It was also devoid of any living presence. Phillip wasn't here, either.

Reluctantly, Val pulled her phone out of her purse and redialed her last call.

"Mom? Mom, Phillip, he… he's not at home. His flat is empty. I don't think he's been home for a while now."

In other words, Phillip Stryver was almost certainly dead.

As Mrs Stryver began to sob softly into her ear, Val felt the pool of dread drip away. Something harder rose to take its place.

Anger.

Vasilisa Prekrasnaya was angry. She just didn't know at whom. _Yet_.

* * *

Vasilisa stopped by the police station on the way to the hospital, and ended up shambling in to work thirty minutes late with a burgeoning headache throbbing at her temple.

Stepping out of the elevator, she made her way down the hall to her office and then stopped short in the doorway. Her office, which should have been locked and empty, was currently being occupied by a middle-aged man. He was watching the news on her small television with his feet up on her desk.

Val wanted to swear but held her tongue. Instead she quietly made her way to the desk and rounded it so she could reach the desktop.

The man, seeing her approach, lowered his feet to the floor and swivelled her office chair to stare her down. "You're thirty minutes late," said her boss, the director of the hospital.

Val glanced at him out of the corner of her eye and debated pushing him out of her chair so she could sit while she worked her computer. Her legs hurt from all the non-stop running around she'd been doing since she woke up.

But alas, it couldn't be done. Director Bill Norman was an asshole and a pervert, but he was very rich and very unlikely to be replaced. This was both because he wasn't half-bad at his job and, as mentioned, because he was very rich. So she had to deal with him with all the decorum she could muster at the moment.

"Sorry," Val grunted, bending over the desk towards the monitor; with a few clicks, she began to access her docket. The director did not reply, too busy peering down at the cleavage revealed by the top few buttons of her blouse, which she'd left undone out of not giving a shit.

By some miracle, Val had no surgeries lined up for today, just a few scheduled tests and some patient case files to go over. None of those were urgent, or required her personal expertise to manage. She then accessed the hospital system to look over the logs of patients that had come in through the last week. There was no one with the name Phillip, or Stryver, and even searching through the E.R. records of caucasian males around 30 did not reveal anyone matching the description of her brother.

"What are you looking for?" asked Norman, peering at the screen over his thin glasses. He rolled the chair over and leaned in closer to her, his arm pressing against the round of her bottom. It was most certainly not an accident, but he would most certainly claim that it was.

Val casually shifted to the side so that she was out of reach, and told him, "My brother's been missing for several days, and no one can get in touch with him. The police haven't heard of anything either, so I was wondering if maybe he'd ended up in the hospital or something."

"Sounds like you should start checking the bottom of the river," Norman joked. It was a tactless and unkind way to respond to the situation, but this was actually a common saying in Gotham City. If someone was missing, check the bottom of the river. After all, the river was the mob's preferred method of getting rid of bodies.

It was tactless and unkind, but it was probably true. And that thought stopped Val short.

The river. The river. There was something about the river. What was it? Why was this coming to mind now?

"You always smell so good," said Norman from next to her. Val wanted to tell him to shut up and let her think. She didn't want to hear his creepy commentary right now. "What perfume do you use? Maybe I'll get it for my wife."

The smell…

Val straightened up. That was it. Right after midnight on New Year's, she'd passed out next to Jonathan. When she woke up hours later, hadn't she thought that Jonathan suddenly smelled different, good? Hadn't she thought he smelled like the river?

Hadn't there been something wet and coppery on his sleeve? It something her nose had found to be disquieting; simultaneously sharp and sweet. Metallic.

Val was no stranger to that particular scent. Now that she was sober, awake and not half-convinced she was hallucinating, she could recognize it for what it was.

Blood.

Phillip was last heard from on December 30th. On January 1st, Jonathan Crane, Val's skinny psychiatrist boyfriend, had left her unconscious in his bed, gone down to the river at 1 in the morning, and returned with blood on his shirt.

She didn't want to believe it. She would be more than happy not to believe it. She really wanted to think the best of her boyfriend. Unfortunately, Vasilisa was also not an idiot. Jonathan abhorred Phillip. He'd even told her, with his own mouth, that he'd kill her brother. She just hadn't taken it seriously at the time.

Maybe Val was remembering incorrectly. Maybe it really had been a hallucination, or a dream.

Or maybe Jonathan had killed her goddamn brother and had made her mother cry. Either way, she had to know.

"Director Norman, I'm taking the day off," Val said briskly, turning to face the man still cozily settled in her office chair.

Norman raised a brow at her and leaned back in his seat. "I don't think so," he said disdainfully. "You can't just blow off work because you think your brother's dead. That's not how things work around here."

Val stepped closer and grabbed his wrists. She pressed one hand right on her chest, and the other on her bum.

Norman stared at her. Val stared back stonily. "I'm taking the day off," she repeated, looking him right in the eye.

His gaze flickered, lowered to the placement of his hands. Her shirt was fairly thin, and she wasn't wearing a bra. He could see the pale curve of her breast from her unbuttoned collar, feel the soft, warm weight of it in his palm.

Norman's fingers twitched. He tugged her closer, pulling her between his open legs. The large hands on Val's body flexed, squeezed, rubbed. His hands traveled up and down her waist, switched sides. Considered. Minutes went by.

"Alright," Norman said, finally. He left his hands where they were. "You've got the day off. I'll call Shepherd."

"Thanks," Val said. She smiled grimly and left the office.

Norman's tastes were simple: money, women, power. All you had to do was play the right angle to get what you wanted. He was a lecher who wanted to touch Val's body, so Val let him touch her body.

Perhaps this was a risky move, but she wasn't at all surprised that it had worked. All she had to do was stand there and angrily zone out. It was so easy for her that you could almost say she was ripping him off.

While Norman was indeed disgusting, in all honesty, Val wasn't particularly bothered about it right now. She was busy being furious about Phillip's death. What worsened her bad mood wasn't that she had been groped, but that she'd allowed herself to have been groped for _Phillip_, of all people, because of what _Jonathan _probably did.

Val was going to shout so much when she saw Jonathan. No, she was going to tell him what she'd had to do, make him mad, and _then_ yell at him. This was, of course, contingent on Val finding any proof in Jonathan's flat—but she had a strong feeling she would.

* * *

And she did. Just as Val had thought, Jonathan couldn't bear to throw away the button-up, her first gift to him. But since he also couldn't leave the blood there as incriminating evidence, he'd done the next best thing.

She found the shirt folded carefully and tucked at the very back of Jonathan's dresser, its left cuff burnt right off. It still smelled faintly of the river and the night air in winter.

Val grabbed it, threw it into her purse, and stormed over to the Narrows. More specifically, to Arkham Asylum.

She was going to have some very strong words with Doctor Jonathan Crane.

* * *

"Dr Crane, there's a Dr Prekrasnaya here to see you. She says she's your girlfriend. Should I send her through?" A pause. "No, she won't say. But she says to tell you that it's important. Okay. Yes, I'm sending her your way now."

The young receptionist at the front desk put down the phone and turned to Vasilisa with both of her fine brows arched high on her forehead. "Dr Crane's office is on the second floor; you just go up the stairway then to your right. It's all the way at the end of the hall. Do you need any help finding it?"

"No, I should be fine," said Vasilisa. She glanced at the wide, curving staircase that dominated the space at the end of the entry hall. Feeling eyes linger on her, Val slid her eyes back to the receptionist, whose brows were still approaching her hair line. "Why do you look so surprised?"

"You're really Dr Crane's girlfriend?" asked the receptionist, looking rather disbelieving.

"Yes," replied Vasilisa, curtly. She narrowed her eyes, ready to get mad about whatever might be said next. More things to yell at Jonathan about. "Why? Did he make it seem as if he was single?" If he had flirted with his coworkers on top of killing her brother, she was going to go up to that office and throw every valuable object in the room at fucking Jonathan Crane's fucking head.

"No, no, everyone here knows that Dr Crane has a girlfriend, it's just that… you're really not what I was expecting." At Vasilisa's own raised brows, the receptionist blushed and immediately fumbled to clarify, stuttering, "I-I mean that you're more than I expected. Like, in a good way. What I'm trying to say is, you're really hot, and he's… I mean, not that Dr Crane isn't hot, I guess. Oh, but I'm not hitting on him or anything. Or you. I just… I'm going to stop talking."

"That might be a good idea," Val allowed, a reluctant smile tugging at her mouth. She could feel the burst of anger that had been waiting in her throat simmering down and settling into something that was still wrathful, but less explosive. "You're a cute girl, so I'll warn you beforehand. Dr Crane is going to be in a very bad mood for a while. You might wanna take some sick days."

With that said, Val strode off, leaving the receptionist gaping after her. She swept up the stairs and through the open doors of the head psychiatrist's office, which she slammed shut behind her with a resounding bang.

Jonathan was around his desk in an instant, an arm reaching out to her. He looked taken aback, brows furrowed, eyes widened. They were as brilliant and beautiful a blue as always, and she wanted to smack them with an open palm. "Val, what—"

Val stepped away from his hands. In a low, careful voice, she demanded, "Did you kill Phillip?"

Jonathan froze in place, startled. He searched her expression. Seeing her sharp eyes, the hard line of her mouth, his face shuttered. "I didn't even know he was dead," he replied, his voice equally low and careful. Slowly, he reached out for her again. "I'm sorry for your loss, Val. But I really have no idea what you're talking about."

Val stepped to the side again, and pulled the shirt out of her purse. "This is the shirt you wore on New Year's Eve. Correct?" Jonathan scrutinized the blue shirt, the distinctive striped pattern on its collar and seam. He was quiet for a moment, unsure where she was going with this, but a glance at her unamused scowl had him give a quick, jerky nod. Val then pinched the burnt-off cuff and held it up between them like a shield. "I passed out that night, and when I woke up, you suddenly had blood on your sleeve. Blood you later burnt off. Tell me the truth, did you do it?"

"What blood?" Jonathan asked, affecting a baffled look. He seemed so sincere that Val might have believed him, had she not already been convinced he was lying. "I did have something on my sleeve, but it was just wine. I drank a little after you passed out."

"That wasn't wine," Val snapped, offended that he was about to try to convince her that her own mind was deceiving her. "I'm a surgeon, I _know_ what blood looks like. What it smells like."

"You drank a lot that night, and you were half-asleep," Jonathan said in a very reasonable tone. He was making his annoying 'I'm being patient with you, but you're not making it easy' face. "You weren't exactly at full capacity. Your tired mind was probably adding details that weren't there."

Val narrowed her eyes at him. Her lips pursed. "You're trying to make me doubt myself and I _don't_ appreciate it," she gritted out, vigorously tamping down the urge to smack him. "I'll have you know I was perfectly aware of my surroundings. If it was just wine, why did you burn it off?"

"I didn't purposely 'burn it off'. Wine is flammable. I was frying something after you went back to sleep and the cuff caught on fire. It happens."

Val stared at him. Jonathan stared back evenly. She was going nowhere with this; his argument was too plausible. It was time to change tack.

"So you were cooking while I was sleeping?" she asked, forcing herself to sound a little swayed. "What were you making?"

"I was practising pancakes," Jonathan told her, raising an ironic brow. "So I could make proper ones for when you woke up hungover."

It was a good lie, or maybe it wasn't even one. He had indeed made Val pretty, well-cooked pancakes for breakfast that next morning. But he was also trying to create a narrative to make her feel especially bad for accusing him, and that just made her madder.

"So you were at home the whole night, drinking wine and making pancakes?" Val asked, softening her voice and making her expression a little guilty.

"Yes."

"Oh," she said, trailing off and looking away. She bit her lower lip.

Jonathan smiled a little at her concession and reached out for her one more time. Val stood still and allowed it. When he smoothed his hands around her waist and pulled her into his chest, she reciprocated; she slid her arms behind his back and put her cheek on his shoulder.

Val felt Jonathan take in air, about to say something reconciliatory. Before he could, she went up onto her toes and pressed her lips to his jaw. Then she slid her mouth to his ear and whispered, "_Liar_. You went down to the river."

His back tensed and stiffened under her palms.

Val pulled away and studied Jonathan's face. It was as blank as the walls of his office, but the line of his jaw was hard. He was caught, and he knew it.

"Hmm," Val said pleasantly. Then she shoved him away, hard. Jonathan stumbled back a couple of steps and looked up to see her lip curling back to bare all her teeth. "You thought you could lie to my face? _Gaslight_ me? _Guilt-trip_ me? _How DARE you_!" she snarled, throwing the shirt in his face.

Jonathan batted it out of the air before it hit him and paid it no mind as it fell to the floor. He tried to calm her, soothingly calling, "Vasilisa, I—"

"Don't you start," Val snapped. She jabbed a finger at the shirt. "Does that smell like _pancakes_ to you?"

A muscle in his cheek jumped. Jonathan angled his head down to face the rumpled pile of cloth; his glasses caught the light. "Is that all?" he said, his voice a little raspier, a little lower than before. He was so quiet that she had to strain her ears to hear him.

Val scowled at him. "Is that all my proof? No, there's also that new and unexplained bruise on your side, your reaction every time I mentioned my family, the lack of burns on your wrist despite how damaged your cuff is, your suddenly 'lost' gloves, that time you _literally_ told me you'd kill him—"

"No," Jonathan interrupted. He pulled his glasses off to put them in his breast pocket, and then he lifted his head again. His hooded eyes were bright and glassy. "I mean, is that all you're mad about?"

"_Is that_ _all_? Is that—" Val sputtered, stupendously angry but unsure where to even begin yelling. She looked around wildly for something to hit him with, and made to stomp over to her dropped purse. "I can't BELIEVE you—"

"I'll assume that it is, then," said Jonathan, as calm as could be. He grabbed her elbow and held her so that she couldn't reach her purse, then pulled her closer. Val stumbled into him; her head shot up to glare bloody murder. Jonathan gazed placidly back, his long lashes lowered. With his low voice, he continued, "You're being unreasonable. If you calm down a bit and think about it, you'll understand that it isn't as awful as you're making it out to be."

"Unrea—_unreasonable_?" she seethed. A red flush crawled up her neck and her eyes narrowed into dark slits of green. Knowing she shouldn't yell but too pissed off to stifle her volume, Val hissed, through gritted teeth, "You _killed_ my _brother_."

"I did it because I love you," Jonathan replied, in an eerily level tone. His gaze didn't flicker from hers for a moment. "He's been your tormentor for years; how could I allow that to continue, especially after Christmas?"

Val tugged her arm out of his grip but remained where she was. Their faces were so close they could have been kissing, if only she didn't look as if she wanted to kill him. "He was _family_."

"Clearly _he_ didn't feel the same way," Jonathan sneered, his eyes cold enough to burn.

Utterly indignant but, as always, unable to think of a good reply to this, Val bit her lip and threw out a vehement, "You should have at least _asked_ me!"

Jonathan became still. "Asked you…?" he repeated quietly, with a flat look. His lip rose, and he made a face that said he doubted even she knew what she was saying. "So next time I feel that I need to dispose of one of your family members, I should ask your opinion first. Is that what you're saying?"

"Yes," Val snapped defiantly, her jaw stubbornly set. She knew she sounded stupid, but she found to her surprise that she meant what she had just said. She was mad that he'd killed Phillip, mad that he made her mother cry, mad that he'd just tried to deceive her, but most of all, she was mad that he hadn't even asked. Jonathan had just decided that he knew best, and then gone and done whatever the hell he wanted without even asking her if that was what _she _wanted. It enraged her like nothing else. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"I'll keep that in mind," Jonathan said softly; the impatience left him, and his face became blank again. The concession pleased her a bit.

They stood there for a while, silent. Val valiantly tried to get her temper under control so she wouldn't start throwing things childishly. As Jonathan continued to gaze steadily at her, suddenly a thought seemed to occur to him.

His brows furrowed for the first time since she entered the room. His expression changed, darkened, the affected stoicism gradually replaced with a glimmer of something else. Jonathan brought a hand up to her cheek and softly murmured, "Vasilisa, you—if you knew I had killed your brother when you came here, weren't you worried I might be… dangerous? Did you even tell anyone you were coming here?… Aren't you being too careless?"

Val looked at Jonathan's serious face for a long moment, stunned speechless.

Then she sucker-punched him right in the gut. He grunted, more out of shock than pain, and doubled over.

"Now you're treating _ME _like this, is that it? HUH? So now _I'M_ the idiot! _I'M_ CRAZY, isn't that so, _DR CRANE_? DANGEROUS? _DANGEROUS_? SHUT THE HELL UP!" Val bellowed, so blisteringly furious she completely forgot all semblance of dignity. The entire floor could probably hear her now. She leaned down to snatch her shoe off her foot, hopping a little as she did so. "And also, we're breaking up! I'm breaking up with you! Because you're an _ass_!" She began to smack him with her shoe, and Jonathan stumbled into his desk to avoid it.

"You can't break up with me," he rasped. With a groan, Jonathan finally straightened up and snatched her shoe out of her hand. He looked ruffled and unsettled. His face was intensely focused, and his tumultuous hair made him look savage. He ran a hand through it, pushing errant strands out of his face. "We're going to get married."

Val sneered derisively at him. "This is the first _I've_ heard of that," she scoffed, already bending down.

"I was waiting for a good time to propose," Jonathan said, catching her hand before she could snatch at her other shoe.

"Are you _serious_? You want me to believe you just killed my brother and decided, 'Oh, now's a _great_ time to get married'?" she demanded shrilly. Val tried to wrench her hand out of his, but found that she couldn't. She gave up and settled for glaring. "And you just THREATENED me! You'll say anything to get out of the doghouse, is that it? You must _really_ think I'm an idiot!"

Jonathan sighed as if she was being purposefully difficult. Val's eyes flared murderously again and she smacked him with her free hand. He winced as it landed on his shoulder and then caught it as it came back for another hit. "The ring's in my pocket," he said, recomposing himself unfairly quickly.

"Oh, the ring's in your pocket, huh? How about you let me go so I can pull it out, then?" Val mocked, sure that he was bluffing. Even if he let her go, she wouldn't bother; she'd simply take the chance to hit him again. When Jonathan slid his hand down to her wrist and indeed made no motion to let her go, Val sneered. "Cut the crap. I wasn't born yes—"

With his hold on her wrist, Jonathan slipped her hand into his inner coat pocket. Her fingers wrapped around a small box.

Her breath hitched.

Slowly, they pulled out a velvet black ring case.

Val stared at it, dumbfounded. "Oh," she said numbly.

Jonathan opened the box that sat in her palm, revealing the glittering ring inside. It was a beautiful piece; the silvery, diamond-studded band swirled like vines around two centre gems, both sparkling inside with starbursts. One of the gems was a blue so pale and clear it was like looking into a crystalline pond, or up at the sky on a clear day. Or, she realized, at Jonathan's eyes. The other was a richer, greener shade, like the sun-dappled sea floor, or the crackling electricity deep within a thundercloud. Val's eyes.

Val couldn't help but to feel touched at how much thought had gone into it. There was no way this wasn't custom-made; without a doubt, it must have been very expensive.

"You've always said that you loved my eyes, and you know that I love yours. It seemed fitting. I thought you might like to have a reminder of me with you, always," Jonathan said. He smiled to see her awestruck face, and tugged her towards him again so that her back was flush against his chest. They both watched him pull the ring out of the box and slip it onto her finger. It fit perfect. It looked perfect.

"Oh… Jon…!" Val breathed, completely dazzled. Her brain short-circuited for a moment at the sight of the beautiful ring on her finger.

Why had they even been fighting? She forgot. It couldn't have been very important, right?

"Perfect. It's literally made for you," said Jonathan into her ear. She shivered at his breath. "Just like you're made for me. We're going to be so happy together. But he would have gotten in the way. Don't you see? He _had_ to die."

Val's blood ran cold in her veins, and she remembered, then, what they had been fighting about. Phillip. Murder. Grieving parents, overwhelming guilt.

Right.

Reluctantly, Val pulled away from Jonathan and turned back to face him. "Why," she demanded shakily, a little angrily, "Didn't you propose _before_?"

"Well, the timing was just always wrong," he replied, looking bemused. "I wanted it to be special."

Val exploded again. "WRONG TIMING?" she shouted. Jonathan's eyes widened. "The timing LITERALLY can't get worse than this! At least if you proposed before you _killed_ _my_ _brother_, I definitely would have said yes!"

Realizing what Val was implying, Jonathan furrowed his brows and reached out for her. "Val, we're meant for each other. You can't let this small setback get in between us. Let's just forget about this mess, alright? Let's be happy together. Marry me, Val."

She stepped back and bit her lower lip. Tremblingly, she said, "Oh, I just…" and then stopped.

Val stared at his pale hand, its long, artist's fingers. She wanted to take that hand, so bad. Just like he said, it _would _be perfect. Especially without Phillip. No more midnight ghoul. No more childhood monster. Just a loving fiancé. Just a lovely wedding, a wonderful honeymoon, a happy marriage. A family that would be wholly her own. It would be so easy to simply extend her arm and…

Val didn't take the hand. "I don't know," she said, curling her fingers into fists. "I need to think about this."

"Vasilisa…" Jonathan said, beseechingly. He looked on edge, his eyes wild and worried. His hand was still outstretched. "Vasilisa, please. Say yes. Say you'll marry me."

"I think…" Val began, slowly. She lowered her eyes to her feet. "I think we need a break. _I_ need a break."

"We don't need a break," Jonathan said immediately. "I know this is a lot to take in, but trust me. We'll get over this, together. Just—just take my hand."

"No. No, I need to be apart from you a bit. My brother, you, and all the others in between… Among all of them, you were the good, normal one. That was supposed to be _you_. But you're clearly not, and now I need to remind myself that I can have relationships with normal, sane people, or I might actually go crazy myself."

"You want to _what_?" Jonathan hissed, his voice suddenly both very loud and very low. With a feral growl, he threw his arm over the desk behind him and smashed everything to the ground. Val glanced up. Jonathan was steely-eyed, his teeth grinding painfully tight. All the muscles in his jaw were bunched up.

Val just watched him, her chin tilted stubbornly. Faced with the tempest of his emotions, she found herself calm. It was a stark reversal of their earlier exchange.

"What you need to remind yourself of is that you're _mine_," Jonathan seethed. His face was as dark and violent as the heart of a storm. "And _my_ fiancée is certainly _not_ going to have a fling with some asshole who doesn't have two brain-cells to rub together, like some _common whore_."

"See, this kind of behaviour is only convincing me that I'm making the right decision," Val said, frowning at him thoughtfully. The profanity didn't even faze her. Her anger was no longer hot and explosive; it had cooled and settled solid in her bones. She had resolved herself to her decision, and now she was tired of this performance.

Jonathan stared at her, hard. He swallowed. Breathed deep. He clenched his fists; exhaled. Relaxed with visible difficulty. "Val," he said, very carefully, through a gritted smile. His eyes were two fierce, glowing stones. "Love. Babe. Don't be rash. We will discuss this properly, rationally, and you will see that you are making a mistake."

"No we won't," she replied calmly. "You didn't discuss it with me when you killed my brother."

"JESUS—" Jonathan thundered, before he breathed deep again. He tried to rein in his temper, but his voice still quavered in volume and turned biting as he spoke. "I'm _SORRY_, okay? I made a mistake. Next time I'll _tell you_ before I start planning to _kill_ your family members."

Vasilisa just looked at him. With a sniff, she kicked off her other shoe and stomped barefoot out of the office.

* * *

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**Notes—**

Dr Crane thinks Val is hot shit but actually she's just a cuckoolander who needs to learn that ignoring crazy only attracts more crazy.

i'm so in love with cillian murphy right now you dont KNOW. every character he does is so fucking attractive. my god. he's so. im just. _god_… ggghhhuuhhh


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